The Question
by otisreddings
Summary: James and Lily. Proposals and stuff. You know.


**one**.

The first time he asks her is in second year, on a dare from Sirius. He approaches her while she's eating her toast in the morning, gets down on one knee, pulls out a ring he made by Transfiguring bits of parchment and string. It would be clumsy spellwork coming from an adult but for a twelve year old even Lily has to note how impressive it is. Everything's still that uniform beige of school supplies but the texture looks right, and the light even glints off of the parchment like it's a real diamond. He has a speech prepared and it's graphic by prepubescent standards and her face gets very hot and red. Everybody's watching and he's got that look on his face that he gets when he knows he's won. It makes her want to punch him in the stomach.

Instead, she finishes her toast, calm as you please, stands up, and walks out on him mid-sentence.

**two**.

The next time it's practically an expletive. It's late at night and she's wearing those pink pyjamas with the cherries printed on that make Mary catcall and pinch her in inappropriate places. She's got her hair all braided to the side and she's about to put her books away and call it a night when there's a loud banging noise and a lot of screaming. She pulls aside the hangings on her four-poster to tell off Marlene but the commotion disorients her and she thinks she gets a glimpse of Petunia but—no, it's a hag, and then a giant cockroach, and then the still and bleeding body of a young boy she's never seen before. It takes about a minute and a half for all six girls to come running terrified into the nearly deserted common room. The fire's burned down to embers but there's still more than enough light to see the four boys sitting in chairs they'd pulled up around the staircase. Remus and Peter look slightly abashed, but Sirius' grin is positively gleeful, and James has managed to somehow scrounge up a paper bag of popcorn like the ones at the movies. The draft from the window gives Lily gooseflesh on the strip of exposed skin around her stomach but she marches up to them anyway, pink-faced and fuming.

A bit of popcorn falls out of James' mouth when he sees her. Sirius and Peter are occupied goggling at all the girls in pyjamas mulling about confusedly and Remus looks like he just wants to go to bed but James goes practically catatonic and does not rouse until about a minute into her shouting at him, when she's already worked herself into a good tirade sort of rhythm and is getting used to this new arrangement of no one yelling back. He snaps out of it with as much ease as he does everything else (how infuriating of him) and Lily trails off as he starts to grin—slowly, like he's savoring the feeling of his cheeks going up and up and back and his eyes going all squinty. She ends up being the one gaping and after a bit turns on her heel and marches back. Marry me, Evans, he calls after her, like he's saying a swear word or praising the Lord. She huffs and puffs and marches harder off to bed.

**three**.

Marry me, Evans. Once. Twice. For weeks on end. She loses count. He breathes it at her when she lets him skip Head duties once a month without asking questions, demands it of her with staring eyes when she braids her hair to the side like he likes, shouts it jovially at breakfast when she passes him the cream. It makes the third years stare. A girl's got standards, she says, or, No, James, not today, or, I think your fan club would kill me first. (He does not, incidentally, have a fan club outside of Sirius, Remus, Peter, and the occasional second year girl with googly eyes, but she claims they'd kill her just the same.) She used to flush and hem and haw but now she knows better, because it's not a question at all—it's Hello, and Thank you, and Gosh, you look nice today, Lily. They're finally and only friends but he is as unashamed now of the torch he'd carried for her as he was when he still carried it. He does not seem to want to bother with pretending for the sake of pretending, and she admires him for it. He tells her to marry him when he feels like he wants her to marry him, if only for the moment, and some part of her has grown accustomed to the compliment. Marry me, Evans, he says, and she grins as she delivers her newest refusal.

**four**.

The first time he means it she's sitting on his bed while he packs his trunk about an hour before their graduation ceremony. Stop doing that thing with your eyebrows, he says. What thing? You know, he presses, that thing you do with your eyebrows where they go up and I feel like you're judging me. Maybe, she responds, if you actually folded your robes and didn't just throw them in your trunk willy-nilly, you wouldn't have run out of room, and then you wouldn't need to repack, and then we could go down and be with your friends like you wanted and I wouldn't have anything to judge you for and my eyebrows would go back to normal. He only waggles his own eyebrows in response and tosses a sock into his trunk haphazardly.

I'm taking a packing break, he says after a few minutes, and flops down on the bed next to her. She scoffs at his lack of initiative and he says she's got enough initiative for the both of them and she says he can tell himself that when she's broken up with him for never folding his socks properly—that is, if we survive long enough to get to that point, because in case you've forgotten, James, there is in fact a _war_going on out there, and I plan on dragging you to the front lines with me, buddy boy—

And he interrupts her. Let's get married, he says, and she scoffs, but he's serious. I'm serious, he says. We're both of age, we're done with school, there's a war going on and I love you. Also your hair is almost as nice as mine. Imagine how good-looking that baby would be. She scoffs again, but he just stares, grinning sort of manically. Finally she shakes her head.

He asks her why and she gives him reasons. Because we're eighteen years old, number one, and number two, we've not been dating six months. We've got no place to live and you've got no ring and I'd rather be proposed to over a nice dinner and not five minutes before graduation because I said we might die soon and you think our kid would be good-looking. I've got standards, Potter. You're going to need to do better than that.

Fine, he says, but it's the good kind of fine, the challenge accepted kind of fine. I will.

**five**.

Two weeks later he asks her again over a nice dinner with a nice ring and she still says no. He asks her why with his brow furrowed belligerently and she says she won't be proposed to when out to dinner with her boyfriend and his boyfriends. Sirius lets out a laugh like a bark two seats over and Peter joins in with his own bright laughter but Remus just shakes his head and nibbles on a breadstick.

**six**.

He starts to try to shock a yes out of her. Let's get married! as she's coming out of the shower, as she's cooking dinner, as they're kissing on the couch. He hides around corners and jumps out yelling it, even when he knows she knows he's coming, even when there's company over. While she's drinking water. While she's drinking wine. Mid-laughter. On the anniversary of his mum's death when he knows he'll have the sympathy vote and when he really needs cheering anyway. He leaves the ring box around the flat in conspicuous places and starts inviting over friends with children. He steals baby socks and sneaks them into her pockets.

When all of this fails he tries his hand at logic, which is a language he knows Lily is fluent in. It's not like we're going to break up, he says, and she allows him that. What does it matter how I ask, or when? It's all details. She allows him that, too. He lays forth his argument precisely and pristinely and she listens to all of it, nodding in the right places, making small noises of assent in the back of her throat, and then right at the end when she knows he's sure he has her she says That was a very well-thought out argument, James, and stretches and ambles off to make dinner without another word. He fumes on the couch for a bit but springs back up fully recovered ten minutes later, a slave to the smell of lasagna emanating from the kitchen.

**seven**.

When she finally asks him it's in the tones of pure annoyance that have for nine years been reserved exclusively for use on James. Their days and nights have become filled with the sounds and sparks of curses like whiplash and lightning and they're always, always, always running. Running, or sitting in meetings talking about the next time they're going to have to run. Run and fight, run and fight, until she feels like she's going to fall over and for once in his life he's actually too tired to talk. They've put off their careers for the war, and they're living off of James' inheritance, which is more than enough to live on but besides the flat and essentials they have no time for luxury spending anyway.

They come back to Headquarters from a raid on a Death Eater's house sweaty and exhausted but something's wrong—Lily smells smoke the moment she Apparates and before she can turn back she's in the midst of a fresh battle. One hand is on her wand in an instant and the other gropes behind her for James. Amidst the crashes and yells she hears a small _pop_ and he's there, behind her, and his big warm hand grabs hers. This, she reflects, would be the perfect time to Apparate away, but—they're needed here, here where the battle is. James, of course, is already diving in. Going home would not, she knows, have occured to him for even a second. It pops into her head that she loves him very much and she makes a note to tell him as soon as she gets the chance.

The next minutes (hours? days?) fly by in a blur of color and noise and she almost doesn't notice he's surrounded at all until she's surrounded, too. They're back to back and she feels him double over as he takes a Cruciatus Curse, but he stays on his feet. She covers until he can straighten up, and narrowly avoids a sinister green beam of light. They're gaining ground but not nearly enough when Sirius barrel rolls in with more flair than could possibly be appropriate and starts to deftly blow up bits of street and burning building until the last of the Death Eaters start to retreat. Lily takes a hit about halfway in and her ribcage is aching, but the pain is tolerable; James, however, is sitting on the ground with his head between his knees, having caught another Cruciatus Curse in the fray. Sirius is unconscious, but Lily is not so worried about him. Having spent half his life unconscious, he recovers from it much better than anyone else she knows.

She moves over to James, kisses his head, his hands, his face. He's breathing heavy. She fights back tears. I'm fine, he says, wiggling his fingers at her, tugging on the ends of her hair. See? Fine. She shakes her head, still overcome, so tired and so hungry. Her ribs hurt. I'll marry you, she blurts out, tears dripping down her face now. I was just saying no to be stubborn, I like saying no to you, I like it when you ask me, but you didn't even think to leave and I wanted to tell you I love you and of course I'll marry you, Potter. She lets out a half-sob that's supposed to be a laugh. She feels ridiculous.

You look ridiculous, James says, grinning. I didn't even ask. You can't say yes to someone when they haven't even proposed. She gives him a look. This week, he amends, and she gives him another look. Fine, he says. Today. It's been at least twenty-four hours and honestly, I'm sick of asking you. You're going to have to ask me and you better hope I don't say no.

She forgets about the burning building and the fresh bruises forming on both of them and the pain in her side and the tears on her face. She's fourteen again in her cherry pyjamas forced out of her dormitory by a Boggart. She clenches her teeth. Will. You. Marry. Me. James. Potter. He clears his throat and she clenches her teeth some more. _Please_, she adds sullenly.

Well, that won't do at all, he says, straightening up, tutting like a disappointed schoolteacher. You've got to _mean_ it, Evans. Like this. He clears his throat. Lily, your hair is as beautiful as your face, and not half as beautiful as your soul. Will you do me the honor of becoming my marriage-wife until one or both of us is dead?

Like that, he starts to say, but she jumps in and screams Yes! before he has time. He blinks. That didn't count! I was showing you how.

It counted.

Absolutely not. That's the stupidest proposal I've ever said.

It's the stupidest one I've ever heard, and it counted, and we're engaged now, bucko, and that's that, so you come here and kiss me before I dump you for Sirius' unconscious body.

He can't quite argue with that and he doesn't quite want to.


End file.
